


After...

by RobinLeStrange



Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith, Strike (TV 2017)
Genre: F/M, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Pining, Road Trips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-21
Updated: 2020-08-06
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:27:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25430872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RobinLeStrange/pseuds/RobinLeStrange
Summary: What happened after 'digging in the dell' in Lethal White
Relationships: Robin Ellacott & Cormoran Strike
Comments: 70
Kudos: 140





	1. Homeward

They’d barely been driving for ten minutes down the pitch-black country lane, when Robin swung the car right into a gap in the hedge and pulled the car up in front of a five-bar iron gate. Strike’s eyes, which had been tightly closed in an effort to think away the pain in his leg, flew open.

“You alright?”

Robin looked at him and shook her head.

“I’m fine,” she replied, reaching into the backseat for her small, canvas rucksack. “But you clearly aren’t. Take that bloody thing off for God’s sake and stop trying to put a brave face on it.”

Strike hesitated for only a couple of moments before rolling up his trouser leg and carefully, painfully, detaching his prosthetic limb, to the accompaniment of several expletives muttered through gritted teeth.

“Here…” Robin handed him a bottle of now warm water and a couple of ibuprofen, swapping them for the prosthetic which she carefully lobbed onto the back seat along with her bag. “And try this…”

He squinted at the black and green tube in the dim light before squeezing a dollop of aloe vera gel into his palm and applying it liberally to the end of his stump. The slightly sticky gel worked quickly to cool and soothe the inflammation caused by the digging and walking on uneven ground, and his low-level irritation at his partner’s straight-talking bossiness subsided immediately as he let out a half-sigh, half-groan of relief.

Robin, who had tactfully averted her eyes on the pretext of checking something on her phone, smiled at him. “Better?”

He nodded sheepishly. “Thanks.”

“Good…one last thing…”

Despite his improved mood and appreciation for Robin’s intervention, he had to force himself not to roll his eyes or let a ‘what now?’ slip out. Then he realised she was holding out a king-size Mars Bar.

“Did I ever tell you you’re an amazing woman Ellacott?” he grinned, taking the chocolate and unwrapping it enthusiastically. “Want some?”

He went to pass it back, but Robin was already starting the car, one hand on the keys in the ignition, the other on the gearstick. Instead of taking it back from him she leant sideways and took a bite, her tongue flicking out to catch a rogue string of caramel.

For a few seconds, Strike completely forget the residual pain in his leg.

“I come better equipped for road trips these days,” she laughed, referring to their first journey out of London, when Strike had demolished an entire packet of shortbread on the way to interview Daniel Chard at his home in Devon.

“You’ll never let me live that down will you,” he retorted, through a mouthful of chocolate.

“Probably not,” she agreed as she reversed back on to the road and pulled smoothly away in the direction of London.

* * *

It was almost five in the morning as they approached Hanger Lane roundabout. Strike, wincing, looked up from reattaching his prosthesis to discover Robin going straight over and continuing on the A40 into the centre of London.

“You should have taken a left there,” he remarked, assuming she was not quite used to navigating around Vanessa’s area of London where she was now living. “Just drop me at Park Royal and I’ll pick up a cab to White City and get the tube from there.”

“You won’t,” replied Robin. “It’s a bugger of a journey and I know you’re not going to be sleeping when you get back, ‘cos I won’t either. And if you want to get to this tied up, you’ll need the photos of ‘Mare Mourning’ I’ve got on my phone, so I’m coming back to the office with you.”

Strike was reminded of her determined argument to drive him to Barrow during the Shacklewell Ripper case and a flood of warm memories hit him of the last time she and Matthew were newly separated and their subsequent adventures around the north of England, staying in the Land Rover and the cheap hotel, sharing toffees and theories as she drove. His equilibrium where Robin was concerned had been irrevocably dented during that forty-eight hours, and if he allowed himself to think about their current situation, he would have to acknowledge that it was now being stress-tested once again.

But they had a case to tie up, so he simply wouldn’t think about it, he resolved.

“Let’s have another look at those photos,” he asked.

She passed him her phone, “Passcode’s 2903.”

“Cheers.”

He tapped in the code, smiled briefly at the screen wallpaper, which was no longer a cosy photo of Robin and Matthew, but a close up of cheery looking, fat, brown Labrador, and brought the pictures Robin had taken in the bedroom at Chiswell House up, zooming in to inspect it closely.

“And it’s definitely not a piebald?”

“No. A piebald is always black and white. If it’s white and another colour it’s a skewbald, although the horse in that painting is more likely a tobiano.”

“And what the bloody hell’s that when it’s at home?”

Robin laughed as she turned onto Bloomsbury Street. “It’s a specific type of skewbald. Skewbald is a generic term for any mixed colour pattern other than black and white. A tobiano, like the horse in the picture, has a coloured head and white lower legs.”

“Right,” murmured Strike, shaking his head. “Well that’s definitely not the painting that Henry Drummond valued.”

Robin pulled up outside the office.

“Out you get, I’ll park up and join you in a minute. Will you be okay with the…”

“I’ll manage,” he replied gruffly, cutting her off. He was grateful but frustrated that once again his leg was having to be given any kind of special consideration. If only the fucking lift worked. But there seemed little point pursing that now that they’d received notice of sale from the landlord.

Robin arrived ten minutes later to find the office door locked.

“Up here…” Strike’s voice called down from his attic flat.

“Oh…okay.”

He smiled at her apologetically as she entered his space. He was already in his armchair, prosthesis removed, trouser leg rolled up. Robin had to stop herself from wincing at the sight. The stump itself didn’t bother her, but the damage that digging in the dell had caused was clearly evident.

“File was up here and I’m pretty sure the milk in the office fridge is past it’s best. There’s a tea for you on the side.”

“Thanks,” she hesitated, “Do you need me to get you anything for that?”

He shook his head and dropped the Chiswell file on the small coffee table in front of him with a thud.

“Pull up a chair then, and let’s make sure that bastard gets his comeuppance.”


	2. Intimacy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Strike and Robin take care of one another in their usual understated way, whilst waiting to hear from Wardle.

It was some three hours, several mugs of tea and a packet of digestives later that they finally finished piecing together the jigsaw that was the Chiswell case. Now all that remained was to wait for a response from Wardle, who Strike had texted to let him know their findings.

Robin, seated on the floor next to Strike’s armchair, yawned, stretched and rolled her neck, which gave a satisfying if somewhat uncomfortable pop.

“Jesus, Ellacott! Come here…”

“What?” She looked up at him and he indicated the stool in front of his armchair where he’d been resting his leg.

“Neck rub…I’m something of an expert if I do say so myself.”

“Oh…it’s fine honestly…” she didn’t quite manage to hide her wince as she turned around.

“Robin, we’re equal partners here. You boss me around about my leg,” he grinned, “…at least let me return the favour.”

She sighed softly. Her neck really was stiff, and it had kept locking on the latter part of the drive home. Vanessa’s sofa really wasn’t doing her any favours. Tweaking her ponytail into a rough bun, she perched, somewhat uncomfortably on the stool.

Strike had barely touched her when he noticed her tense posture, and the sound of her breathing, slightly heavier and faster than usual. His hands dropped away immediately.

“Fuck, I’m sorry. I didn’t think…”

“About what? Oh, that…”

How could she tell him her tension had nothing to do with previous trauma and everything to do with the thought of him touching her? Suddenly, her relaxed satisfaction at a job well done and the restoration of their professional partnership to the happiest it had been in over a year had dissipated as her head had filled with less welcome, but nonetheless temping thoughts.

The day had been full of shared intimacies; his arm around her shoulders on the verge at the side of the motorway, his confession about his fear of being driven. Her arm around his waist as she supported him back to the car, and the revelations they’d shared that both their relationships were finished. She was sure she’d seen a flicker of something in Strike’s eyes as she’d told him her marriage was over, however quickly he’d tried to hide it. She had tried her best not to assign it any meaning, but she suspected it came from exactly the same place as the sensation she’d experienced in the pit of her stomach when he’d told her that he and Lorelei had also split up.

“I’m fine, just a bit on edge…”

“I’ve got one of those microwave wheat bags somewhere if you’d rather.”

“After you’ve promised me your magic fingers?” she laughed, “Honestly, I’m fine…and it’s been ages since anyone has offered me a neck rub.”

 _I bet it bloody has_ , Strike mentally cursed Matthew and his complete lack of awareness for his, until a week ago, good fortune and lack of appreciation of the same.

His fingers were warm against the cool skin of Robin’s neck and shoulders, gradually building pressure as he worked out the knots in her muscles from hours of driving and sitting, probably uncomfortably, on his threadbare carpet, which she’d chosen over a kitchen chair, the better to spread the collected evidence over the floor for inspection. This close, Robin’s familiar perfume was just perceptible beneath the smell of damp of earth and woods that still clung to her clothes from their time in the dell, and the feel of the fine wisps of hair that had escaped her messy bun on his fingertips was distractingly ticklish.  
Robin, eyes closed, failed to stifle a soft moan of pleasure as another knot dissolved beneath his touch. She thought she heard a sharp intake of breath from behind her in response, felt an almost imperceptible pause in the movement of his thumbs against her skin. Reluctantly she pulled herself back to reality.

“Anything from Wardle yet?”

Strike paused to check his phone. “Nothing, probably a bit early for him, he was out with April last night.” He licked his lower lip, soothing the tender patch he’d bitten down on involuntarily at the sound of Robin’s reaction to his ministrations moments earlier. It was, he thought, reaching for his prosthesis, time to call it a day. “Do you fancy going to get some breakfast?”

“God yes!” grinned Robin.

* * *

They headed for the nearest café that did a cooked breakfast, partly out of hunger, mostly in deference to Strike’s injured leg which was clearly paining him by the time they reached the bottom of the stairs.

Wordlessly, Robin slipped her arm around his waist and this time there were no arguments as he willingly used her for support.

The café was quiet when they arrived, being early on a Sunday morning, with only a couple of road sweepers in their neon jackets at one table, and a small group of young men and women – probably students – who appeared to have made this their final stop on the way home after a night out at another.

Taking a table a good distance away from either group, Strike dropped into a chair with a sigh of relief, while Robin headed for the counter to order food and drinks. She returned with two large mugs of coffee which she placed on the table before announcing she was off to the ladies.

As she carefully washed her blistered hands she reviewed her reflection in mirror. Her skin was pale with smudges of earth and green still here and there from digging, and black circles under her eyes from lack of sleep, not just the previous night but over the last seven days. The old clothes she’d worn were covered in mud and grass stains. She sighed, pushing mental comparisons with sleek, elegant Charlotte and colourful, glamorous Lorelei to the back of her mind, ran some tissue under the tap and did her best to scrub the marks from her face before returning to the table.

Strike wasn’t there when she returned. He’d had a reply to the other text he’d surreptitiously sent, besides the one to Wardle, and was outside the door. Robin could see him smoking and smiling fondly into the receiver as he chatted animatedly to the person on the other end, and a frown flickered over her face. He wasn’t talking to Wardle like that, he’d split up with Lorelei and dismissed any talk of Charlotte.

 _He’s never exactly short of female attention_ , she thought, with an icy spasm in her stomach that she chose to ignore. Perhaps that was why he’d been in such a foul mood on Saturday morning, not because he was with Lorelei, but because he was with someone else, someone new, someone he couldn’t keep his hands off and hadn’t wanted to leave in bed on their own. Robin dismissed the prickle behind her eyelids as extreme tiredness and gulped coffee, which was still too hot, whilst she waited for him to return.

When he did, it was with an enormous grin that belied the pain she knew he was in from the way he was walking.

“Right, that’s sorted then,” he told her. “I’ve just spoken to Ilsa, they’d be more than happy to have you stay with them for the time being and you can move in whenever you like. I’ve suggested this afternoon – you need a decent sleep after the last twenty-four hours and you’re not going to get that on Vanessa’s sofa.”

“Now who’s being bossy?” remarked Robin, with a teasing quirk of her eyebrows over her coffee mug, hoping the relief of finding out who was talking to didn’t show on her face. “Thank you.”

Strike leaned back as a waitress arrived with their breakfasts – full English for him, eggs Benedict for Robin – and topped up their coffees. He’d thought Robin had looked exhausted and downbeat when he’d come back indoors, but now he could see that she was fine, despite the trauma and exertions of the last day and a half, eyes sparkling as they continued to discuss the finer points of the case whilst both tucking in enthusiastically.

It was Strike who was in the bathroom as they prepared to leave, when Wardle called his mobile which he’d left on the table. Robin answered immediately.

“Can’t really fill you in on the gory details right now,” she told him, “We’re just having breakfast. Would you be able to come to us at the office? Cormoran’s buggered his leg and it would be better if he can stay put once we get back.”

“No problem,” replied Wardle, with a good-natured grin. Whilst April had been ranting about Strike’s treatment of Lorelei for the last few weeks, he’d seen it coming a mile off. Anyone who’d spent any amount of time in the company of both Strike and Robin could see where their relationship was heading, if only they weren’t both too bloody stubborn to just go with it.

“I’ll be with you as soon as I can.”

“Thank God for that, I am desperate to get to bed,” Robin laughed, looking up at Strike as he arrived back at the table.

“Wardle,” she explained, ringing off, “He’s on his way over to the office.”

“I thought he’d want us to meet him at the Yard?”

“No, he’s fine to come to us to talk it through and pick everything up. Okay?”

“Bloody marvellous,” he agreed, wincing. “Don’t suppose you’d mind being a human crutch again, would you?”

“’Course not,” she smiled, reaching for him, “Come here.”


	3. Friendships

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robin arrives at Nick and Ilsa's after she and Strike have spoken to Wardle.

Robin and Strike spent a couple of hours going through their findings with Wardle in the office before he took the file back to New Scotland Yard. On his arrival he’d raised a sardonic eyebrow at the pair’s dishevelled appearance, and he couldn’t resist a quick wind up as Strike saw him out.

“Yeah, definitely wouldn’t want to keep you any longer mate,” he smirked, glancing in the direction of the kitchenette where Robin was washing up. “Robin was telling me earlier she’s desperate to get to bed.”

“Fuck off Wardle,” was Strike’s none-too-amused response.

“All done,” called Robin, emerging and picking up her jacket and bag that she’d already brought down from Strike’s flat. She huffed a loud sigh. “Just my stuff to pickup from Vanessa’s then I can collapse into this lovely bed I’ve been promised,” she grinned.

Strike hoped his thicker than usual stubble would hide his blushes at the mention of Robin and bed in the same sentence.

“Do you need a hand?”

“Don’t be daft, you need to get some sleep as much as I do. It’s two bags…I’ll cope!”

“Right, well. I’ll see you tomorrow. Don’t worry about rushing in first thing. I’ll get Barclay on that surveillance job and then we’ll have the morning free.”

“Great,” she paused at the top of the stairs as Strike locked the door behind them. “Are you sure there’s nothing else you need?” She didn’t like to mention his leg again specifically, feeling she’d pushed the boundaries far enough on that front already, but equally she hated to think he might have to suddenly go out again. He’d even removed the prosthesis in the office while they were talking to Wardle, only putting it back on to see him out and get back upstairs to his flat, so she knew his stump was seriously troubling him.

“No, I’m good thanks, Dr Ellacott,” he teased, knowing what she had meant anyway. His voice and expression turned softer. “But thank you…not just for the leg stuff but for everything. I know I was cross about you going upstairs at Chiswell house on your own, but you found the missing piece of the puzzle…we wouldn’t have solved this without you.”

“I know,” Robin replied, with a confident grin. “See you tomorrow.”

She was halfway down the stairs when she heard Strike call her name.

“What?”

“Text me and let me know when you get to Nick and Ilsa’s safely. You’ve not slept in over twenty-four hours…”

She smiled fondly at his concern.

“Will do.”

Strike remained at the top of the stairs, listening to the remainder of her footsteps and the slam of the door behind her as she stepped out into Denmark Street.

* * *

It was almost two o’clock when she arrived at Octavia Street, showered and changed with her holdall on her shoulder and pulling her wheeled suitcase behind her. Ilsa was at the door before she’d reached it.

“Robin…welcome to Casa Herbert!” she greeted her with a hug, glancing down at her bags. “Is this it?”

“For now. I need to speak to Matthew about picking my stuff up from the flat at some point, but I’ve got all the basics.”

“Okay, let me show you your room.”

Ilsa led the way to the bedroom at the front of the house, a small double room decorated in shades of white and cornflower blue, with a large sash window and a range of light pine furniture, including a very welcoming double bed.

“This is really lovely Ilsa, thank you so much,” said Robin gratefully, tears welling up from a combination of tiredness and relief.

“No problem at all,” the older woman replied, “Any friend of Corm’s is a friend of ours. Now, bathroom’s at the end of the landing, we’ve got a little en-suite in our room, so you don’t need to worry about walking in on Nick in the buff,” she laughed. “Make yourself at home. I’m just about to do cheese toasties if you want to join me, or is sleep more of a priority right now?”

“Ooh, cheese toastie sounds great.”

“I’ll go and get them started. See you when you’ve settled in.”

It turned out that Ilsa made excellent cheese toasties, and they ate and chatted, washing their food down with mugs of tea. A few bites in, Robin’s phone rang, and she picked it up with a small exclamation as she saw the name on the screen and flicked her thumb to answer the call.

“Sorry, I forgot to text. I’m here, Ilsa’s feeding me cheese toasties,” she smiled down the phone.

“Corm?” mouthed Ilsa from across the table. Robin nodded.

“He says he knew he should have come with me to help out,” she told her across the table, then returning to her phone conversation, “No you bloody shouldn’t have…now go to bed.”

“I’d already be in bed if you’d remembered to text,” Strike admonished at the other end of the line. His tone was gentle though, full of concern rather than displeasure.

“Yeah, yeah alright, I know, I‘ve said I’m sorry…you too, see you tomorrow.”

Robin was still smiling after she ended the call and returned to her toastie.

“I was supposed to text to let him know I was here okay,” she explained through a mouthful of hot cheese, “He was worried about me driving around London on no sleep.” She rolled her eyes in mock frustration.

Ilsa contemplated her for a moment.

“He thinks a lot of you, you know?”

Robin felt herself flush slightly at the compliment.

“Yeah, we work well together, and he’s a good friend.”

Ilsa took another sip of tea and said nothing. Strike had never discussed his feelings toward Robin with her, or to the best of her knowledge, with Nick. Still she’d seen him towards the end of the Shacklewell Ripper case, after he’d sacked Robin, and again on several occasions after her wedding to Matthew and subsequent return to the agency as a married woman.

Of course, his relationship with Elin had ended around the same time, she and Nick had certainly heard about that via his colleague, Elin’s brother, who had been singularly unimpressed at the way he felt their friend had treated his ‘already vulnerable’ sibling. They had listened to Strike’s version of the story, including the interrupted meal at La Gavroche with a mixture of horror and amusement, but it had never once occurred to Ilsa that his slump in the following months had had anything to do with that. In fact, Ilsa was relieved that the relationship had ended, feeling that Elin sounded slightly too Charlotte-adjacent to be any good for her best friend.

She and Nick had liked Lorelei on the handful of occasions they’d met, but she’d seen the invisible barriers that Strike had been erecting from day one.

Ilsa had never interfered in Strike’s private life, beyond expressing the same reservations that all his friends and family had shared about Charlotte, but now she wondered if it wasn’t about time she gave him a shove in the right direction. Maybe not just yet, she’d need to suss Robin out first, but one day…

They finished their lunch and, having had her offer of helping to wash up firmly rebuffed, Robin headed up to bed, with Ilsa promising to wake her at seven that evening so they could head to the local pub for dinner. Nick was on a late shift and she fancied neither the microwave meal she had in the fridge or cooking.

Robin drew the curtains and collapsed onto the bed. She had changed into a pair of leggings and a comfy tunic top before leaving Vanessa’s and planned to just doze on top of the bed, but it was so deliciously soft, the duvet so fluffy, that she got up after a few minutes, unable to resist changing into a nightshirt and slipping beneath the covers.

Her thoughts of how comfortable the bed was in comparison to the hard sofa she’d been sleeping on wandered to Strike’s neck rub earlier, the pressure of his thumbs and the heat of his breath on her skin as he concentrated on the job in hand. Half asleep she imagined the same scenario but this time she leaned back into him as his hands slid from her shoulders around her waist, then up to cup her breasts as his lips made contact with the curve of skin where her shoulder joined her neck…

She snapped back to consciousness. _Oh God…please not now…_

Robin, despite her many musings on the subject of her senior partner over the preceding year, had always managed to avoid entertaining any thoughts of a carnal nature about him.

On her wedding night, after he’d held her in his arms on the stairs at Swinton Park; on her honeymoon, wearing a groove in the sandy beach in the Maldives; laying beneath Matthew at Le Manoir Aux Quat'Saisons on her wedding anniversary, tears leaking from her eyes in the dark, when the distraction would perhaps have been welcome, never, ever had she thought about Cormoran Strike in _that_ way.

She wasn’t entirely sure why, given the other thoughts she’d had during that time. Whether it was due to her lack of sexual experience with anyone other than Matthew, the knowledge that Strike’s partners were so much more worldly than she was, or just an in-built sense of decency or self-preservation.

All she knew was that having felt the confident yet gentle movement of his fingers on her skin that morning, having heard the almost imperceptible hitch in his breath at her moan of pleasure, she could think about little else but how that feeling, that sound might translate into another situation altogether.

Wired but exhausted, Robin came to the conclusion that there were two ways to resolve the situation. She could play the meditation app on her phone and force her mind away from such wild imaginings, or she could give in to temptation and…

_No! He’s your boss and you’ve been separated for all of eight days for God’s sake._

With a frustrated sigh, Robin picked up her phone, opened the app, selected ‘Sound Bath experience’ and focused on her breathing until she finally drifted off to sleep.


	4. Witching Hour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Late on Sunday night, Strike mulls over his feelings in the light of discovering that Robin's marriage is over.

The feeling of panic that overwhelmed Strike at the sensation of being pinned down quickly dissipated when he realised what – or rather who – was doing the pinning.  
  
Robin was above him, surrounding him, her tight, wet heat enveloping his cock as she rose and fell, her nipple hard in his mouth. Her thighs felt like silk beneath his grasping fingertips and he held onto her tightly, moving beneath her, effortlessly matching the rhythm she’d created.

She leaned back, looking down at him, flushed and smiling until a particularly well angled thrust took her from merely breathless to euphoric, the sounds of his name and her pleasure filling the tiny apartment as her short sharp fingernails created tiny crescent moons along his collar bone.

He felt his own release building, sparks of sensation skittering through his veins, pooling like lava at the base of his spine.

“Come for me, Cormoran… I need to feel you… _please_ Cormoran…”

Her last words tipped him over the edge, and everything surrounding them fell away as he climaxed. The shabby flat, the trying case, his missing leg, Matthew, Lorelei…even Charlotte vanished into shimmering nothingness.

Strike awoke with a start, almost as breathless as he had been in his dream and with one hand already on his straining erection. For a split second it occurred to him that it would be easy – so easy – to simply finish the job, just a few strokes to tip him over the same precipice he’d just fallen off in his subconscious.

Gritting his teeth, he rolled over, yawned and stretched as his thundering heartbeat returned to normal. His traitorous subconscious might have betrayed him, but he had enough self-control to resist going there. Robin, although she would never know, deserved better. Besides, he would have to face her in the office and succumbing to temptation would hardly help him regain his equilibrium.

Through the Velux window he saw that the sky, which had still been light when he’d tumbled into bed, was royal blue, and silently prayed that it was late on Sunday night rather than early Monday morning. The clock on his phone and the growl of his stomach confirmed, much to his relief, that it was in fact still the former. Hauling himself upright he reached for his prosthesis and attached it to his still tender stump. It hurt like a bastard, but it would suffice for a walk to the corner shop for fags and beer and a detour past the local Chinese takeaway.

The descent of the stairs was a slow process, and the exit into Denmark Street provided little respite from the difficulties he was experiencing. The muggy weather had broken, and the city streets were slick with rain.

“Fuck it!” His exclamation as he almost lost his footing turning into Charing Cross Road was loud enough to disrupt the sleep of the only marginally more dishevelled man curled beneath a grubby sleeping bag in the doorway of an empty shop. Pausing for a moment, he took a few deep breaths and waited for the pain in his knee to reduce from excruciating to merely agonising.

At the corner shop, he opted for wine rather than beer, then added milk, teabags and biscuits for the office to his basket before heading to the counter to pay and purchase his Benson and Hedges.

He arrived at the Chinese just a quarter of an hour before closing time, but the young woman behind the counter did a passable job of hiding her irritation at the appearance of such a late customer. A few minutes later, a group of flamboyantly dressed women nearer in age to Strike fell through the door, giggling drunkenly. He glanced up from the Sunday paper he was reading, and realised to his horror that among their number were both Lorelei and Coco, clearly reunited once more in their disgruntlement about his treatment of them. He ducked his head swiftly back behind the Sunday People, but it was too late.

“Cormoran?”

Reluctantly he lowered the paper.

“Lorelei. How are you?”

She took in his dishevelled appearance.

“Better than you by the looks of it. Oh, sorry, that was your line wasn’t it?” she replied bitterly, referring to her suspicion, although it was never confirmed, that he had been planning to use the age old ‘you’re too good for me’ line as the parachute out of their ailing relationship.

Strike, sighed. He really didn’t need yet another slog through his long list of wrongdoings right now. Miraculously, her expression softened, although he was aware of Coco watching the exchange, gimlet-eyed, from the counter.

“Been working?”

“Yeah,” he yawned, “Had to pull an all-nighter, we didn’t get back until nearly six and then…well, it’s in the hands of the police now.”

“We…” repeated Lorelei, “…you and Robin?”

“Yeah…oh that’s me…” the woman at the counter passed him his bag of food, but he caught the expression on Lorelei’s face as he turned to take it.

“Well, take care,” he muttered awkwardly.

“I will,” she replied her tone brittle once again.

“Bastard.” Coco’s voice reached his ears just as the door slammed shut behind him.

_Fuck…what an evening._

* * *

On his return to his tiny flat, Strike grabbed a glass and a fork before removing his jeans and collapsing into his battered armchair in his boxers, all but tearing off his prosthesis the moment he was seated. Somehow his stump managed to both feel and look even worse after it’s short period of use than it did when they’d got back from Woolstone. He reached for the aloe gel that Robin had left him and slathered it on before opening his carton of noodles and pouring a large glass of Merlot. He knew it was probably unwise given that he planned to take more painkillers before returning to his bed, but that was kind of the point.

The remote control was out of reach, the case largely resolved, which left his mind with only one place to wander.

Robin.

Seeing Lorelei had brought into sharp relief his feelings for his partner. He had barely given Lorelei a moment’s thought since the final death throws of their relationship the previous weekend, yet how often had his mind wandered to Robin when he’d been with Lorelei?

He recalled how overwhelmed he’d been to see Robin walking into the hospital ward as he sat at Jack’s bedside, in comparison to his emphatic ‘God no’ when she’d asked him on the phone if Lorelei was with him. If she’d wondered why his girlfriend hadn’t been offering her moral support she’d never mentioned it. It was clear from the look on Lorelei’s face in the takeaway though, that she’d certainly wondered about Robin. He recalled her tone as he'd left early in the morning for their first trip to Chiswell House:

"Ah, no. You wouldn't want to keep Robin hanging around..."

He wondered if Matthew had ever wondered the same. From the anxiety he’d picked up from Robin whenever their work clashed with her home life, he had always suspected as much. That Matthew’s dislike of her job and contempt for him was as much borne of jealousy as of a desire to protect Robin.

 _Idiot_ , thought Strike, _if I was…_

He snorted to himself.

_If I was what? Her husband? Her partner in anything other than a work sense? Don’t be so fucking ridiculous._

He finished his noodles, chewing angrily at his inability to keep his thoughts in check, and poured a second large glass of wine.

The fact remained though, that all the invisible barriers that had been in place throughout their relationship, were no longer standing. Robin’s engagement ring, then the wedding band. His succession of pseudo-relationships designated to distract and protect him from the feelings that had been taking root within him since…

The truth was he couldn’t put a finger on timescale. It had been obvious from the outset that Robin was a very attractive young woman. What Strike hadn’t bargained for when he’d pulled her back from the top of the stairs and agreed to let her stay for the week, was that she would be equally well endowed with intelligence, humour, kindness and tact. He had not anticipated her loyalty after such a short spell of working together, or her determination or her courage. He hadn’t expected to see so many of his own values reflected in her. In short, he hadn’t seen it coming, whatever this feeling was (for he still refused to name it, even if he was now being forced to acknowledge it’s presence), and he sure as hell didn’t know what to do with it.

_Nothing. You do nothing with it, you stupid fucker._

She was about to embark upon what would no doubt be a difficult divorce. He had no concerns this time that Robin’s relationship with Matthew might not be over, she was a forgiving woman, but she wasn’t a stupid one.

And then what? If the previous night had proved anything, he thought resentfully, it was that Robin deserved more than he would ever be able to give. It was bad enough working together and having his nose rubbed in the fact that he was so sorely lacking these days. Watching her getting progressively filthier and more exhausted as she dug in the dell when he could no longer manage. Realising that even after that he’d slept whilst she’d been the one driving them safely home in the small hours of the morning. Seeing the blisters and torn flesh on the palms of her hands from her exertions.

She deserved better. She deserved someone that could take care of her in every way that mattered. He knew she would not like the thought of being ‘taken care of’ – she was too independent for that – but still it was what she deserved. Someone who could do that for her, if and when it was necessary, and he knew that was something he just couldn’t do. He lacked the physical ability, the financial security, God knows he doubted his emotional intelligence – he’d been told often enough of his inadequacies in that department.

Cursing himself for allowing his mind to wander so far down such a very disconcerting rabbit hole, Strike slugged back a couple of co-codamol with the last of his wine, and hauled himself back to bed using the system of strings and beams he’d set up, where, much to his relief, he fell immediately into an exhausted, dreamless sleep.


	5. Scotland Yard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robin and Strike's visit to the incident room at Scotland Yard is cut short when Robin receives a barrage of texts from an unknown number.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Told predominantly from Strike's point of view, with extracts from Lethal White by Robert Galbraith (paragraph in italics)

Robin was grateful for the light breeze as she surfaced from Westminster tube station into the mid-afternoon sun. Even having to rush to meet Strike from tailing a mark, and the lengthy, sticky journey hadn’t been able to suppress her excitement.

In ten minutes, they’d be in the MET incident room for the Chiswell case, at the invitation of DCI Judy McMurran, the officer in charge.

She hurried along Victoria Embankment, reflecting at how quickly everything had fallen into place. Two people had already been taken into custody, and the hunt for the third was progressing. Incongruously her mind flickered to Badger and Rattenbury, the Chiswell’s dogs, and she wondered if Tegan Butcher had been drafted in to look after them in their remaining owner’s sudden absence.

One person who would not be sparing a thought for Rattenbury in particular, was Sam Barclay.

He’d turned up at the office on Monday afternoon, and when asked if he’d gotten away alright had raised his trouser leg with a rueful grin to reveal a circle of purplish marks, a couple with faint scabs stained with iodine.

“Nothing a precautionary tetanus jab couldn’t fix, furry wee fucker.”

Strike was waiting for her beneath the familiar sign that so often provided the backdrop to news reports, carrying his jacket, shirt sleeves rolled up.

“Ready?” he asked as she approached.

“Yeah,” she beamed back, “Let’s go.”

* * *

  
As fascinated as he was to see the case laid out in the manner he was more used to seeing in the army than in his own tiny office, Strike found he spent a large proportion of the following few hours surreptitiously watching Robin’s reactions, listening to the questions she asked of DCI McMurran and DI George Layborn.

He knew first-hand that she was intelligent and intuitive but seeing her in that setting hammered home exactly how good she was, and he couldn’t suppress a sense of pride and gratitude that she had chosen to stay with him. After all, there was no reason why she couldn’t have applied to the police off the back of the Landry case, rather than asking him to take her on permanently.

That pride increased exponentially when she returned from taking a call on her mobile to announce that her contact had confirmed that ‘Mare Mourning’ was possibly a Stubbs and worth tens of millions of pounds. Still, he noticed, with a flicker of unease, that she seemed to have returned to the group a little paler than when she had left, the enthusiasm so evident in her eyes for the rest of the afternoon visibly diminished.

_“Cormoran,” she said, picking her jacket up from the back of a chair where she’d left it. “Could I have a quick word outside? I’m going to have to leave, sorry,” she said to the others._

_“Everything okay?” Strike asked, as they re-entered the corridor together and Robin closed the door behind them._

_“Yes,” said Robin, and then, “Well, not really. Maybe.” She handed him her mobile. “You’d better just read this.”_

_“You’re going to meet him?”_

_“I’ve got to. This must be why Mitch Patterson’s sniffing around. If Matthew fans the flames with the Press, which he’s more than capable of doing… they’re already excited about you and Charlotte…”_

_“Forget me and Charlotte,” he said roughly, “That was twenty minutes she coerced me into. He’s trying to coerce you…”_

_“I know he is,” replied Robin, “but I have got to talk to him sooner or later. Most of my stuff is still at Albury Street. We’ve still got a joint bank account.”_

_“Do you want me to come?”_

_Touched, Robin said:_

_“Thanks, but I don’t think that would help.”_

_“Then ring me later will you? Let me know what happened.”_

_“I will,” she promised._

Strike headed back into the incident room, anger bubbling in his chest. What the fuck was Cunliffe playing at? As much as half of him wanted to make his excuses and head off after Robin, he knew she was right in her assumption that his presence would hardly help matter. For a start he wouldn’t trust himself not to deck her arsehole of a husband, not for dragging him into the situation, but for putting Robin in that position.

“You alright mate?” asked Wardle, his brows furrowed at his friends decidedly stormy expression.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he lied. “Where were we?”

They returned to the desk where they’d been perusing Jimmy Knight’s website, where DI Layborn had brought up another screen, this one showing photos that Henry Drummond had supplied of the other paintings that he’d sold for Chiswell. As Strike leant in to take a closer look, trying to remember Robin’s brief tutorial on horse colours on the way back from Woolstone, the phone records, which Layborn had placed on the desk when Strike had handed them back to him, caught his eye.

A flicker of a frown crossed his face as he recognised the second of the two numbers, but where from…

_“Fuck!”_

Layborn and Wardle started back as Strike grabbed the paperwork, every other head in the incident room turned in their direction.

“Robin had to meet her husband…ex husband…but it’s not him, it’s Chiswell.”

“Are you sure?” drawled Layborn, his thick Geordie accent disbelieving.

“Of course, I’m fucking sure, she showed me the messages, they came from this number,” he stabbed at the sheet of paper.”  
  
Wardle already had his phone to his ear, “Trust me mate, he’s got the most bloody ridiculous memory of anyone I’ve met. If he’s says that the number was Chiswell’s, it’s Chiswell’s.”

Strike called Robin’s phone. No reply. Immediately he hit the recall button, mentally calculating how long the journey would take to Little Venice, how long she would be in the underground, out of signal.

Wardle watched his friend frantically checking his watch, redialling, leaving messages and texts.

“Hey, Gooner. It’s a good twenty-five minutes from Embankment to Warwick Avenue and then a couple of minutes’ walk to the canal itself. She’ll get your messages in time. Where did he ask her to meet him?”

Strike immediately named the bar that Chiswell had referred to in his text. Wardle turned away to hide his look of unease and brought up Google maps on his phone. With no sign of a bar in the area Robin was heading for, he did a search for the establishment’s name, but once again drew a blank.

“Layborn,” he called across the room to where his colleague was on the phone internally to DCI McMurran, “Get back up mobilised – canal by Clifton Villas in Little Venice.”

He turned to Strike, but he’d gone.

Wardle ran from the room, down the stairs and out to his unmarked car. Pausing momentarily to fix the blue light on top, he jumped in and sped off in the direction of Embankment underground station, arriving just in time to see a frantic looking Strike emerging onto Embankment Place, phone clamped to his ear.

“Get in,” he shouted, pulling to a stop in front of him.

Strike hauled himself into the passenger seat, still talking.

“Yeah okay, thanks.”

He turned to Wardle. “Izzy, Chiswell’s sister. Apparently he had some coked-up girlfriend with a barge that way.”

Wardle could sense the impatience emanating from him as he turned the car round and headed west.

“I’m going as fast as I can, she won’t be at Warwick Avenue yet. Layborn’s sent a message to all panda cars in the vicinity to try and get to the station to head her off.”

Still Strike kept hitting redial, desperately hoping that there might be a patch where the signal could get through. He was so intent on reaching Robin he didn’t even register the fact he was being driven by someone else, at speed through London’s rush hour traffic.

Wardle took the slightly longer, but usually less congested route along the Mall and past Buckingham Palace. They’d just passed Hyde Park Corner, when he heard Strike yelling into his phone.

_“Get out of there, it isn’t Matthew…”_

At the other end of the line Strike heard a dull thump, a splash and then, nothing.

“Robin…Robin…? _Fuck!_ ”

“Put your fucking foot down,” he shouted at Wardle, who was doing his best but had just hit a massive tail back.

Despite the blue light and siren, traffic was moving painfully slowly, the congestion making it difficult for drivers to find anywhere to pull over to allow them through. Strike hit redial yet again, hoping – praying, that Robin had just dropped her phone, but knowing instinctively that she hadn’t.

**The number you have dialled is unavailable.**

They were still two miles away. It would take a fit man on two legs a good ten minutes to run the distance between the car and Robin, the kind of man he’d been before the IED that had taken half his right leg. Strike knew with a sickening sense of rage and frustration that he didn’t have a hope in hell of reaching her by any other means than the car in which they were currently crawling through the traffic.

Without the distraction of phoning Robin to focus on, Strike felt a creeping sense of panic wash over him as Wardle wove deftly between the slow-moving cars. He was driving as fast as he was able to and with considerable skill but the proximity of the unmoving vehicles, particularly from the passenger seat, was terrifying. His mind kept going back to his conversation with Robin at the racecourse on Saturday.

_“I don’t want a third time Robin, because you might not be so lucky.”_

He reached for his cigarettes but stopped himself as his fingers closed around the pack in his pocket.

Wardle gave him a sideways glance as they drew to a halt, waiting for more cars to move out of the way.

“Go for it,” he said, hitting the button to roll down the passenger side window, “I’ll take the rap if there’s any comeback.”

“Thanks,” Strike rasped hoarsely, fumbling a cigarette out and lighting it with shaking fingers, throwing the dead match out of the window.

_She’s clever. She’s escaped two killers using her head and her self-defence training._

But in his mind’s eye he kept picturing the Harrington and Richardson revolver he’d taken from Kinvara at Chiswell House. No-one could defend themselves against a bullet at close range. He just had to hope that Raphael hadn’t checked…

Suddenly, halfway along Park Lane, the traffic parted like the Red Sea and Wardle put his foot down hard, speeding towards Clifton Villas.

Strike checked his watch, five minutes since he’d spoken to Robin. Five minutes that had seemed more like hours.

_She could be dead already._

He took a deep breath, glancing at the speedometer, knowing Wardle couldn’t go any faster.

It took another seven minutes to get to Clifton Villas, and Strike was out of the car before Wardle had completely come to a stop, ignoring the sharp jolt to his knee as his false foot hit the tarmac, and setting off at speed towards the canal, or at least as much speed as his one working leg and a prosthesis not designed for the purpose would allow. After the previous three days he shouldn’t have been weight bearing, let alone running, but as he made his ungainly progress his brain managed to override the searing pain that tore upwards from his stump, through his right thigh and into his hip and lower back.

_Please don’t let me be too late._


	6. Octavia Street

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robin and Strike recover from their ordeal at the hands of Raff Chiswell.

It was gone eight-thirty when Robin was finally escorted by Wardle back to the foyer at New Scotland Yard after giving her witness statement and answering a barrage of questions.

She had been provided with a less than stellar egg sandwich and a polystyrene cup of watery, milky tea along with painkillers. She had also been offered an examination by the duty medical officer in order to ascertain whether Raphael’s punch had caused any significant damage, such as broken ribs.

Even hearing the words sent a shiver down her spine and wave of nausea over her.

“I’m fine,” she assured DI Layborn, as she took her seat.

“Are you sure, pet? Because it’s really no trouble…”

“Absolutely sure. Can we just get on with it please.”

Sensing her tension, although oblivious to the reason for it, Layborn mercifully dropped the subject.

On arriving back at the foyer, she was immediately greeted by Strike, who was also clutching a tepid, inadequate cup of tea, looking exhausted and about ten years older than his thirty-seven years.

“What are you doing here?” Robin was both exasperated at, and grateful for his presence.

“You didn’t seriously think I was going to leave you and let you make your way home alone after that?”

She smiled. “Of course not, but you’ve had a rough one too. You should be resting that leg, and besides, Eric’s going to give me a lift home.

Strike sighed. “Actually, I’ve got Nick coming to pick both of us up once he’s been to my place and packed a bag. Denmark Street’s crawling with press…again.”

“Oh bugger,” exclaimed Robin.

“Is that bugger about the press, or bugger that I’m coming home with you?” quipped Strike.

“Both,” Robin laughed in reply.

“Rude,” retorted Strike, then, his voice softening, “Are you okay?”

Robin thought about it for a minute, her eyes prickling slightly. It wasn’t the first time she’d had to give a statement since working with Strike, but somehow this had felt different. Layborn’s well meaning offer of the duty doctor’s services still on the edge of her mind, prodding none-too-gently at long buried memories that she’d rather forget altogether.

“I’m…yeah…I’ll be fine…”

But her voice wobbled, and she found herself suddenly and unexpectedly surrounded by Strike’s arms, her face buried in his neck, inhaling the comforting scent of tea, smoke and something that she couldn’t describe but which she instinctively knew as simply ‘Cormoran’.

Strike recalled the hug on the stairs at Swinton Park a little over a year previously, the fleeting embrace and kiss in the car park at the hospital weeks earlier, and found himself wishing – longing, for the chance to hold Robin under any kind of happier circumstances. He heard her take a shuddering breath against his shoulder, trying to compose herself, and fought the urge to pull her closer and kiss the top of her red-gold head.

The arrival of Nick abruptly cut any further inappropriate thoughts short.

“Oggy, you ready to go?”

They both turned to face him, standing in the doorway.

“C’mon. I’m on a double yellow, and Ilsa’s put one of her legendary lasagne’s in the oven for you. You must both be starving.”

Robin extricated herself from Strike’s grasp, giving him a knowing look, to which he returned a good-natured shrug, and the three of them headed out to Nick’s waiting car.

* * *

Ilsa was in the hallway before Nick had ushered the pair of them inside.

“Robin, you poor thing,” she exclaimed, stepping forward to hug the woman who after just a few days she was already thinking of as more of a friend than a lodger. “I’ve run you a bath with some lavender oil – thought you could use it. And Corm, you’re welcome to use our en-suite if you want a shower before dinner. It’ll be about half an hour.”

“Cheers Ils,” he said, bending down to kiss her on the cheek, and beginning to fill her in on the events of the afternoon, giving Robin an opportunity to head up and get herself settled.

Upstairs in the bathroom she examined her reflection in the mirror, her bottom lip swollen, the cut encrusted with dried blood and the mottled pattern of bruising that was beginning to show just below her rib cage, and tried not to think about the kind of reaction she would have gotten from Matthew had she had to return home to him in such a state.

Robin had called her parents from Strike’s mobile phone on the journey home, relief washing over her when her father picked up the receiver at the other end of the line and informed her that Linda Ellacott was out with Robin’s sister-in-law. Michael’s voice had been full of concern, of course, but he ended the call reassured and told her that he would play down what had happened as much as possible when telling her mother, for his own sake as much as Robin’s. Before she rang off she asked him to take the same approach with Matthew, should he contact them. She hadn’t heard from him for several days now, and felt no need or desire to fill him in on the evening’s events, but knew he was likely to try to reach her if he saw news reports on what had happened in Little Venice, if only to berate her for her supposed stupidity. At that moment she was exceedingly grateful to think of her mobile phone laying waterlogged at the bottom of the Grand Union Canal.

She and Strike ate in the sitting room, with bowls of pasta balanced on their laps, glasses of red wine on the coffee table, taking turns to fill in Nick and Ilsa on the details of the case in between mouthfuls. After returning downstairs, Strike had removed his prosthesis and resorted to using the crutches that Nick had had the foresight to collect from his flat.

“Are you sure you’ll be alright on the sofa?” asked Robin, somewhat hesitantly. “You could always take my bed for a couple of nights and I’ll…”

“You bloody won’t,” he replied firmly, but without anger, heaving himself upright to help Nick as best he could with stacking the dishwasher. Ilsa excused herself to bed as she had to be at court early the following morning.

Having had his offer of help rebuffed by Nick with a joking comment about him being neither use nor ornament, Strike took the opportunity to sit in the garden for a contemplative post-dinner nicotine fix instead.

The three minutes or so that it took him to work his way through his cigarette was barely enough to get his thoughts in order, let alone make any sense of them.

He hadn’t felt fear like that since…He mulled it over, pondering the numerous times he’d been forced to make his way through London at speed after one of Charlotte’s many threats, or, on occasion, actual attempts to harm herself.

He realised then that he had never felt the same level of fear in relation to his ex, probably, he thought ruefully, because for all her spells in rehab, the therapists, the medication, her stepfather threatening to have her sectioned, she had always been the one in control. Ill, maybe, but still in control.

The last time he’d felt fear like he had that afternoon was when he’d heard Robin being attacked by Donald Laing over the phone a little over a year previously.

He allowed himself to consider whether he would have felt the same sense of abject panic had it been Barclay or Hutchins on that boat, but finished his cigarette in time to stop him having to admit to himself that his feelings would have taken a different shape if it had been one of his other contractors involved. The closest thing he could draw a parallel with was how he'd felt when Lucy had called to tell him Jack had been rushed to hospital, and he'd spent that endless night alone at his bedside, watching and listening to the machines monitoring his young nephew.

Nick was finishing up in the kitchen and putting food down for the kittens as Strike made his way through.

“Gonna see what Robin’s up to and turn in I think,” he said, “Thanks mate, for everything.”

“No worries, Oggy.”

He continued into the hallway and back to the sitting room, prodding the door open with one of his crutches, opening his mouth to speak but stopping in his tracks.  
  
Robin was curled up asleep in the ‘cuddler’ chair in the far corner of the room, her head resting against the raised arm, feet tucked up beside her. Even in sleep the soft, sage green t-shirt she wore with grey leggings complemented her colouring, and she seemed peaceful and relaxed despite what she had been through over the course of the day. A sudden, but not entirely unexpected rush of relief and protectiveness washed over Strike as he stood in the doorway, watching her sleep.

“You should tell her, you know,” said a matter-of-fact London accent behind him.

“Tell her what?” replied Strike, pulling himself slightly more upright on his crutches, but not turning to face Nick.

“How you feel about her…don’t try and fob me off…” he interrupted Strike before he could object. “Ilsa and I have known you too long.”

“She's about to go through a divorce, and probably not an easy one if that _twat’s_ previous behaviour is anything to go by,” Strike whispered through gritted teeth.

“Ilsa was about to get married when we got back together,” shrugged Nick. “Sometimes you just have to take a chance. Life’s too short, you of all people should know that. Night.”

Nick headed up the stairs leaving Strike still in the doorway. There was no way he was leaving Robin to sleep like that, but it seemed a shame to wake her up. He decided to sit down and wait until she woke of her own accord, but as he crossed the room she stirred, stretched and yawned, eyes still closed.

“Robin,” he said softly, “Robin, you need to go to bed.”

She opened her eyes and looked up at him sleepily.

“Corm’r’n, I told you,” she mumbled, “Leave me here and have my bed.”

“Absolutely not. Come on, up you get.”

She groaned, reluctant to move, although she knew she couldn’t really spend the entire night where she was.

“Ellacott, are you going to make me put my leg back on and carry you up those stairs?”

“You wouldn’t!”

“Try me.”

“Stubborn bugger,” she muttered under her breath, but deliberately loud enough for Strike to hear, as she got to her feet.

“You wouldn’t have me any other way,” he joked.

Robin merely quirked an eyebrow at him, wished him goodnight, and made her way up to bed, closing the sitting room door behind her.


	7. Early hours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Both Robin and Strike have a disrupted night's sleep, resulting a little more honesty than usual between the two of them.

Robin was back on the canal boat, watching Raff Chiswell reach for the limp cushion as he told her he wanted to arrive in hell with a sexy girl on his arm, his face ghostly pale in the gathering dusk.  
  
The sound of splintering wood was ear splitting as Strike shouldered his way through the locked door, and for moment Robin felt relief wash over her, then she saw Chiswell swing round, aiming the gun at Strike.  
  
She lunged across the table but he knocked her flying as he simultaneously pulled the trigger. This time there was no ineffectual click but a loud, reverberating crack which echoed around the small wooden space as Strike, who had barely pulled himself upright from his dramatic entrance dropped like a boulder to the floor.  
  
Robin tried to scream but no sound came out as she hurled herself towards her injured partner, only to be thwarted by Chiswell grabbing her and pulling her backwards to him, her hair wound around his left fist, the nose of the revolver digging upwards below her ribcage.  
  
“I think we’ll wait a minute, before we join him,” he snarled in her ear. “It’ll be nice to have welcoming committee when we get to wherever we’re going…”  
  
Arms crushed at her sides Robin could do nothing but watch in horror as Strike slipped away before her eyes…  
  
She awoke in Nick and Ilsa’s blue and white spare bedroom with a loud sob, clammy and shivering, gasping for breath, which she’d barely managed to catch before she heard a knock on the door. Ilsa was in the room and had switched the light on low before she had a chance to respond.  
  
“Robin are you okay, we heard…”  
  
She rushed to sit on the side of the bed and wrap her arms around Robin who was shaking and sobbing uncontrollably.  
  
“Shhhh….shhhh…it’s fine Robin, you’re here at home. You’re safe.”  
  
Robin nodded snottily into her friend’s shoulder but didn’t let go of her or raise her head for several minutes.  
  
“It was the most awful nightmare. I get them sometimes about…other things but…”  
  
“It’s hardly surprising that you’d have nightmares about what you went through yesterday.”  
  
“It wasn’t…” Robin stopped herself, “It doesn’t matter. It’s over now, I’ll be…”  
  
But before she could finish her sentence she saw Strike’s face in her mind’s eye again, his eyes locked on hers as he bled out on the barge’s grubby wooden floor, and the tears came again.  
  
Isla continued to shush and rock Robin gently until she calmed down again.  
  
“I really will be okay,” she said through swollen red eyes as she emerged once more from Ilsa’s shoulder.  
  
“I can ask Nick if there’s anything he can give you to help you sleep if you like,” Ilsa suggested tentatively.  
  
Robin shook her head. “No, no…I'll be fine. I might just pop down and make a cuppa though, if that’s okay?”  
  
“Of course it is, this is your home Robin, for as long as you need it to be. Nick and I will be mortally offended it if you treat it any differently.”  
  
“Thanks,” Robin replied, through a watery smile. “I think I’ve got some Rescue Remedy in my bag too, that’ll do the job. You get back to bed, you’ve got an early start.”  
  
Ilsa yawned extravagantly. “Hmmm. Yes I have. Well, if you’re sure you’re okay.”  
  
“I am, now go…”

* * *

Laying downstairs on the sofa directly beneath Robin’s bedroom, Strike had been awoken by the sounds above him. He’d been wide awake in a split second, reaching for his prosthesis, but then heard Ilsa crossing the landing, the muffled sound of the two women talking, Robin crying.  
  
He knew it wouldn’t help Robin to be overwhelmed with concerned people, and besides, despite his initial instinct it felt wrong to encroach upon her private space uninvited.  
Still he cursed his absent leg, and sat in the dark feeling angry, impotent and helpless for several minutes before grabbing his crutches, cigarettes and matches and making his way out into the back garden.  
  
The smoky heat filling his lungs was a direct contrast to the cool, damp air, and it calmed him somewhat, although it didn’t prevent his mind wandering immediately back to Robin. Was he really doing the right thing, encouraging her to continue working alongside him, sharing the risks?  
  
He recalled Matthew calling him a sociopath in the hospital after Robin had been attacked by Donald Laing. He knew it wasn’t true, but it was hard not to question his judgement. Robin was one of the brightest and strongest women he knew. She’d done extensive self defence training, was excellent at counter surveillance. It was just the perils of having to learn on the job.  
  
Which meant that it could happen again. And honestly, he considered, guiltily, how much learning on the job had she done in the last year? Her instincts and people skills were exceptional, frequently better than his own, but that was no substitute for an experienced mentor, and he had to admit to himself that he had shirked his responsibilities on that front in the name of self-protection.  
  
If he’d worked more closely with her after she returned from her honeymoon, would she have known to call back the unknown mobile number and check who was on the other end?  
  
If Robin was to remain his partner in the agency, he thought, he needed to put his personal feelings aside and step up. He recalled the surge of inappropriate euphoria at the roadside when she’d told him her marriage was over and wondered whether the absence of Matthew in the background would make their working relationship easier or more challenging.  
  
He suspected it might be the latter, for him at least, but whichever it turned out to be he resolved to give Robin his very best from now on. She deserved nothing less.  
He pulled his coat tighter over his t-shirt and boxers and lit a second cigarette.

* * *

Robin padded down the stairs barefoot and into the kitchen, registering the open door of the sitting room as she went past. Even before she reached the kitchen light switch, she saw through the sliding doors to the garden a glowing amber spot and a swirling plume of smoke.  
  
The kitchen was sufficiently well lit by the incoming moonlight for her to make two cups of tea without alerting Strike to her presence, and he jumped slightly in his chair at the sound of the door opening behind him, his expression instantly changing from one of high alert to soft smile when he saw her and the steaming mugs she was carrying.  
  
“You couldn’t sleep either then?” she asked, placing them on the little wrought iron table.  
  
He hesitated for just a second too long before replying.  
  
“Oh God, I didn’t wake you up too, did I?” she groaned.  
  
“It’s fine. I would have come to check on you myself, but Ilsa beat me to it,” he indicated his half leg with a rueful shrug. “How are you feeling now?”  
  
“Okay…a bit wobbly…” Robin hesitated. She was more than a bit wobbly. She wanted to reach out for him, to prove to herself after the nightmare that he was really there. To hold him and feel his arms around her as they had been before Nick arrived to pick them up the previous evening. She desperately wanted to tell him about the nightmare in the hopes that talking about it would make it seem less real, but she didn’t quite know where to start.   
  
As if reading her mind, he asked. “Want to talk about it?”  
  
She sighed, took a mouthful on hot tea and set her mug back down.  
  
“Or not…”  
  
“We were back on the boat, only he’d reloaded the gun…” she paused, “…and when you came crashing through the door…I couldn’t reach him in time to stop him, and then he grabbed me and all I could do was watch you…”  
  
She sniffed and picked up her mug, wrapping both hands around it as she buried her head into it whilst she regained her composure.  
  
Strike watched her silently, not sure quite what to make of what she’d just told him, particularly in the light of having heard exactly how upset she’d been.  
  
“Well, I’m still here,” he said, deciding to make light of the situation. “Large as life and twice as ugly.”  
  
“You’re not…” she laughed, “Stop fishing for compliments!”  
  
He grinned back at her, pleased to see her smiling again.  
  
“Thank you,” she said softly.

“What for?”

“Having the presence of mind to remove those bullets, noticing the number, following me, breaking the door down. You saved my life.”

“You did that yourself.”

“He was just about to pull the trigger. Another few seconds, and...well, who knows?”

“Robin it was you keeping him talking for so long that was the key...that was all you. You’re smart, you think on your feet and you kept your cool...I’ve known soldiers that couldn’t have kept that up like you did, most civilians wouldn’t have had hope. You’re exceptional Ellacott.”

She beamed. “You know you helped with that too right?”

He gave her an exasperated look. When would she ever accept how brilliant she was.

“Seriously, knowing that you knew...that you were coming for me. I don’t think I could have stayed as calm without that. Besides…” she grinned, “…I kept thinking about what you said on Saturday about not having my death on your conscience...couldn’t have that could we?

Strike thought his heart was going to stop for a moment as he looked at her smiling, teasing him.

She looked pale, tired and fragile but her eyes were sparkling. He felt his own eyes burn and looked away as he slowly exhaled a long stream of smoke, acquiring several seconds in which to pull himself together.

“No, we couldn’t,” he agreed. “The business couldn’t afford to lose you and I...I don’t want to lose you either. My life, the business...they’d be very different without you in them Ellacott.”

She reached for his hand across the table, placing it over his and squeezing gently. He made no attempt to move his hand and she left hers resting lightly on top.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Robin whispered quietly into the darkness.

“Thank God for that,” Strike replied.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And I'm leaving it there because I don't want to mess with the 'three weeks later' canon ending, but hopefully my interpretation gives a hint as to why they might have 'parted with a wave, concealing from each other the slight smile that each wore once safely walking away, pleased to know that they would meet again in a few short hours over curry and beer at Nick and Ilsa's'.


End file.
